cadenza the acousmatic dusk.Concealed strings, their chitinousglissandi, stir up every treeless

gap. Iambs crisped, adrift from source -the chanting of a lost Pythagoras....*** Så här beskrivs hon i författarporträttet hos Poetry International: "Sarah Howe is a British poet, academic and editor. Born in Hong Kong to an English father and Chinese mother, she moved to England as a child. Her poetry is precisely painted and aesthetically striking, often grappling with, and delighting in, problems of cultural identity and representation." Skillnader i temperament beskrivs i den korta dikten "Frenzied".Frenzied, by Sarah Howe(from Loop of jade. London : Chatto & Windus, 2015.)Maybe holding back is just another kind of need. I am a blueplum in the half-light. You are a tiger who eats his own paws. The day we marriedall the trees trembled as if they were mad – be kind to me, you said.*** För ovanlighetens skull hade jag nog alltför höga förväntningar på den här omskrivna boken. Visst, jag kan se och förstå att Sarah Howe är en författare med potential men läsningen lämnade körsbärshinken halvfylld. Mest gillade jag den här dikten . . .Woman in the garden, by Sarah Howe(from Loop of jade. London : Chatto & Windus, 2015.)after BonnardWhat you see on entering a room – the red-checkedblouse, burningon a chairframe in the attic crook, will last a lifetime. She smiles to see her slim form continue in the sunlit legsof the stool, the lilac towel fallen across its face, and she thinks –wisteria peeling from the house one mid-April – head cockedas if marooned on the way to a word.

Mustard flasheswildly up the wall: the mirror is a locked gardenand sometimes she visits that country. Through its keyhole the stool in miniaturewades a cobalt sea, or some accurate idea of sea – a greybird with salmon feetengaged in telling things new a song veinedwith rust from the throat.She wants someone who will teach her the names of treestheir alien natures: the mimosa’s trembling yellow and the ornatemainmast of the ash. The only thing she ever longed forwas an enamel bath, the running water tingedwith cochineal, a window, somewhere heightening the tone – the bay at Cannes,the mountains of the Esterel.